


Beginnings

by alltheglitters



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Mentions of Foggy and Karen, Mentions of Jack Murdock - Freeform, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3956401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheglitters/pseuds/alltheglitters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite that Matt knows the way, Claire puts her hand in the pocket of his sweats to lead him to her room for they both need a good night’s sleep. Her casual possessiveness makes him wonder how the hell did he ever think that he belonged to anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a break from writing my multi-chapter fairytale AU for these two babies, which I shall post soon once I finish a solid chapter!
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: in its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to Marvel and Netflix, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
> 
> Warning: this has not been read by a beta. All mistakes are my own.

"Having your wounds kissed by someone who doesn't see them as disasters in your soul but cracks to put their love into is the most calming thing in this world." - Emery Allen.

 

 

 

 

 

After a long and tiring day, Claire is getting into her bed when her burner phone rings.

Her heart lurches at first, wondering what has happened to Matt this time. Her fears may never truly subside, though she asks herself what it says about her that she has gradually become more accustomed to having those worries in the first place.

Thank goodness that he sounds relatively fine when he grunts, “You at home?”

“What if I said I wasn’t?”

“I can tell that you’re lying,” he answers easily. The arrogance and certainty in his speech make her blood boil. Either he is outside right now, sitting on her fire escape, or he is on the other side of the door to her living room. “Actually, I can smell the candles you put out a few minutes ago. Pressed herbs?”

As though it is a question that needs asking. As though he isn't already aware of every precise detail of her apartment down to the crack in her storage cabinet.

“Are you alright?”

“Yep,” he reassures her quickly, scratching his ear. “I was in the neighborhood.” The way he describes Hell's Kitchen, you'd think it is as big as the whole of Manhattan.

She answers, as she always seems to, “Yeah, Matt, you can come up.”

 

 

 

 

 

His head is spinning, as it does every few days, which is why he wants to see her. Her presence is comfortable. Soothing. Matt Murdock is a man who welcomes calmness and constancy in his life.

When he knocks on the door, he hears the patter of footsteps coming closer to him. Evidently, Claire has been waiting for him, sitting on her windowsill, perhaps because she thinks that he’ll climb into her apartment. Come to think of it, the only times he doesn’t enter through her window is when he walks her home after dinner.

Her arms are crossed. “You couldn’t resist coming to see me, could you, Matthew?”

“Never, I don’t think,” he retorts quickly, but it isn’t lost on him how his name sounds like a hymn sung by the local choir when she pronounces it.

From the way the wind blows, the small fluttering of the fabric and her shivering legs, he gathers that she is wearing a thin t-shirt. She is probably in her leggings; he can’t be sure, but he is certain that he will find out soon enough. “You were about to sleep, weren’t you?

That she knows that he needs her isn't lost on him. Why else does she say, “It’s fine. Really… Couldn’t sleep again?”

“No, not really… I… uh…” He takes a seat on her couch, nodding just enough that she sees it. “It was this or putting on the suit and looking for a fight. Figured that I should give the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen a night off.”

 _This_ gauges a bigger reaction from her. The rhythm of her breathing changes slightly as the corners of her mouth lift into a smile. Then, she laughs. “Good for them.”

As her body radiates warmth, her cheeks flush slightly. Even if his selfishness with her is another thing he must atone for, he counts his stars that she likes being in his life. He’s lucky, luckier… the luckiest. 

Settling beside him on the couch, she nuzzles his shoulder with the side of her face. Her clothed thigh grazes his, confirming that she’s wearing her usual, post-shift leggings. He doesn’t think he’s felt this loved or connected to another person before. He briefly wonders if God has forgiven him for all of his sins, because Matt somehow has Claire Temple in his arms. Clever, steadfast, wonderful, compassionate, beautiful Claire. The woman is made of something solid and substantial.

It isn’t a topic that comes up often in his conversations with Claire, but his father is a constant underlying current in their lives. Therefore, it is no surprise when she asks, “It’s your dad, isn’t it?” Her fingers reach the hollow of his palms as she asks. Only it isn’t a question: the tip of her tongue resting on the syllables makes him believe that she is certain of what he is thinking about at this hour. She doesn’t _want_ to be certain, she wants to be wrong, because Claire doesn’t want him to be sad.

His father. Matt doesn’t even know where to begin. He grew up idolizing his old man as a child, but as he got older, the fire raged on within him for he could not comprehend how a man could think that his child was better off without him.

For the rest of his life Matt might feel conflicted, but of one thing at least he can be sure. In addition to being able to take one hell of a beating, he has inherited his dad’s self-hatred.

He’s quiet. Even if she doesn’t mind, how can he let his demons burden her? To make matters worse, he can sense the sleep in her eyes, the exhaustion in her muscles.

She takes his silence as a yes, intertwining their fingers together.

Matt enjoys memorizing every part of her being; however, he might be the most partial to her fingers. Nimble and feminine. And calloused –

A striking combination. And tonight, the pressure of her fingers wrapping around his is almost imperceptible, even for a man who feels it all. It is support and affection from her very core. When he closes his eyes, he imagines himself holding on by a lifeline.

Claire herself has never needed anyone’s support; he doesn’t relate to that as much as he wishes. Pressing his lips against her fingers in reverance, his mouth moves to sense the pulse in her thumb.

“I wish he’s here.”

The knot in her heart tightens.

“He’ll be proud of you.” Her response is careful, but honest. Precisely attacking what he fears – that his dad looks down at him with shame and disappointment. Not for failing to learn the law better, but for sharpening his body into a weapon, his mind into a reserve of improvised strategies.

“Will he?” His dad most probably _hates_ that his son has essentially followed in his footsteps. There must be a place in heaven where you don’t see everything that happens to your loved one on earth. If there is such a place, hopefully his dad is there… After all, Matt’s father has always been one to turn a blind eye; in law, they call this willful ignorance – or willful blindness. “He didn’t even like it when I picked fights with the bullies. I bet he's disappointed.”

“You don’t know that,” she answers. Wincing afterwards.

They both know that this is the crux of the problem. It isn’t merely that his dad is likely to be guilty of looking the other way, but the fact that Battlin’ Jack Murdock, in his self-imposed, isolated corner in heaven, cannot be here in person to witness the man that Matt has been molded into by the dirt and grime of Hell’s Kitchen for better or worse.

“What about you?” For someone who has been told time and time again that he is emotionally withdrawn and mentally stoic, he sure finds himself putting his heart on the line for her on a regular basis. For her sake, he wishes that she is less accustomed to it. “Are you – are you proud of me?”

He can’t read her mind, but every fiber of his being tells him that she is about to say, _What do you think?_ Instead, the next words that come out of her mouth are, “You are.” Her words are lined with something akin to hope and reassurance. What she is reassuring him of he has no idea.

She must notice his eyebrows knitting, because she inhales and tries it again. This time she sounds more deliberate. “You… are…”

He is what?

He isn’t sure of what she is getting at – is she counting the many ways in which she is proud of him? She doesn’t have to.

If there is anything Matt Murdock is good at, it is remembering, but these words aren’t making any sense to him at the moment, and she is asking him to recall a significant conversation they must have had.

When she repeats it one more time, she’s patient.

There is something that he is missing…

Her fingers trace the lines across his forehead, his cheek, moving downward to his chin, his collarbone. Her touch simultaneously feels like friction and water that he wouldn’t mind drowning in.

The sleep in her voice is what jolts his memory. He knows precisely what she is trying to tell him. The last time he had doubted himself was probably just a day or two ago, but the last time he had actually vocalized his concerns to her was last month. A horrible, long trial had worn him out, made him question what was left of humanity and his own humanity. When she came to his place for a beer, he told her that he doubted whether he was redeemable, whether he deserved her, whether he was worth loving, whether his father would be ashamed of him, whether he was worth the sleepless nights after a double shift, whether… whether… Yet, against his better judgment, he believed her when she kept whispering, _You are_ , until he fell asleep in her bed. Right now, he wants nothing more than to believe her.

Stupidly he has been asking her these questions over and over again since they began their relationship.

On the second day of his third year at Columbia, he learnt that you should never repeat the same question in a cross-examination, because it gives the witness the opportunity to rethink. Change their answer.

But he asks Claire tonight, because, while a part of him lives for her unwavering faith in him, the whole of him thinks that he better give her a reason to leave. Especially before tomorrow.

She never budges though, does she? Not that he has even once doubted the fact that Claire seems to have the courage to carry them both.

Matt tries his best to be gentle when he pulls her into his embrace. Her chest touches his, and he crooks his head as if to give the impression that, although he is not watching her per se, he is acutely aware of her. “I fucking love you.”

“That’s always good to hear,” she quips. “Considering.” They have a particular way of deflecting with one another, sometimes with inconsequential things and sometimes with things that matter.

The teasing had continued after she had kissed him that day she came with him to Sunday mass (as far as things go in Matt’s world, making out with his nurse in church does not remotely qualify as weird). He can still remember the humidity of the cloisters, his hand supporting her elbow as she leaned against the stone walls. She had told him in that straightforward manner of hers that she had changed her mind.

Even after the to-and-fro of their relationship at the beginning, the banter has never gone away.

And now, three years later, the joy and jumpy feeling in his stomach inform him that their repartee is still one of the best things about being with her.

With his hands enveloped in hers, he spins her engagement ring slowly. A thin band. Handcrafted in rose gold. An aquamarine gemstone.

She’s born in March; even if neither Matt nor Claire believe in all that shit about birthstones.

He had given in after Foggy fought for Matt to buy this ring at the jewelry store. Matt trusted his best friend’s eyes more than he trusted his world on fire.

Leaning towards her, he brushes her lips with his. Although their movements are slow to start with, allowing him to savor her taste of toothpaste, apple and spices, he soon feels their mouths moving together with a natural synergy. More than ever he can sense the heat radiating from her body. Her back lands on the couch when he nudges her shoulders slightly, her body attuned to his.

Although every fiber of his being wants to do otherwise, Matt musters the strength to pull himself back.

“Yeah, we shouldn't get carried away,” she mumbles against his neck.

“Thank you, Claire,” he says awkwardly, his breathing erratic as he breaks away from her. “I’m sorry for coming over, by the way… I promised that I wouldn’t.” 

“I spent the whole day trying to find my something blue, so I _am_ tired,” she admits. Claire lets out a small puff of air. “But it’s fine, Matt.” The steel in her voice means that she is holding his gaze. This is possibly his favorite idiosyncrasy of hers as much as he doesn’t quite understand why she does it. “Knowing you, I’d be surprised if you _didn’t_ come over.”

Correction: _I would rather you come over than have you being left to your thoughts_.

When he doesn’t respond, she pauses, standing up. Gently tugging his hand to suggest that he should follow suit. Despite that he knows the way, Claire puts her hand in the pocket of his sweats to lead him to her room for they both need a good night's sleep. Her casual possessiveness makes him wonder how the hell did he ever think that he belonged to anyone else.

Matt breathes into his pillow as he crawls onto his side of her bed. It finally dawns on him how drained he feels.

Before he drifts off completely, she tells him to keep his hands to himself, which makes him chuckle. Fair enough, he thinks, because they are going to need their energy for tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

When he wakes up, he realizes that she has managed to slip out of his arms.

He can still smell her. The stunning sensation almost overwhelms for he has only woken up several seconds ago. It takes a moment to adjust to the world, because the sensory overload happens first.

Her natural musk. The pomegranate in her shampoo that always makes his knees buckle. That hospital, disinfectant smell that her shower gel never seems to overpower. 

Isolating her particular scents and the sound of her footsteps from everything else he senses on this floor, he gathers that she is in the bathroom.

Matt has managed to sweat into his shirt last night, but he swears that he left a t-shirt here a few weeks ago. Opening her closet, to his surprise the first thing that he touches is a material he has not felt her wear before. And for good reason, because he doesn’t need to ask Claire to figure out what this article of clothing is exactly.

The cloth is thin and soft. A layer of mesh above the smooth silk. Tiny plastic beads tickling his palms. Tracing the embroidery, he finds that decorative floral motifs are etched across the canvas of the fabric. 

What Matt would give to be able to watch Claire twirl in her wedding dress.

“Hey, that’s cheating.” 

Spinning around to face Claire, a smile tugs at his lips. He has been so utterly engrossed in the feel of her dress that he has managed to shut off every other sense except for touch. “It’s not like I saw it.” 

She is having none of it. “Put it back. You need to go get ready,” she instructs him sternly, while clipping on her pearl earrings. “You have about two hours until Father Lantom lets us into the church.” Particles in the room shift slightly when tendrils of her hair dance along her shoulders. From this he infers that her hair is half-up, half-down for the occasion. “I’ll see you there?”

He nods in her direction, making a mental note to himself to grab the boxing glove cufflinks in his top shelf at home. They were the first things he bought with his internship paycheck. Before them, he had nothing else in his possession to commemorate his dad.

“I’m going to meet my family first, like fifteen minutes before,” Claire adds.

Foggy will be there on time. And they should wait until Karen gets there, since she has a tendency to be late. Matt doesn’t want either of them, _his_ family, to miss anything, especially given how short the ceremony is.

As he leaves Claire’s apartment to change into his Sunday best, he knows for a fact that he is the luckiest man in the world.

 

 

 

 

 

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> [This](http://shopruche.com/corrine-embroidered-dress-by-sue-wong.html) is the wedding dress that I envision Claire wearing.


End file.
